


Nine to Five

by Cluegirl



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Gen, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-22
Updated: 2010-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 08:16:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cluegirl/pseuds/Cluegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some monsters are bought, and paid for in blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine to Five

She showed the back of her fist, and uncurled one finger. "The woman who cleaned our house. My father paid her, before he went," her lip twisted, irony and disgust in equal measure. "to hide me from the authorities. When the police came to search her house, they did not even give her the chance to speak. They just shot her in the hallway and stepped over."

The pretty blonde, Agent Jareau, frowned, nervous. "About your father, Mrs.-"

"In the throat. One bullet. I was in the coat closet, looking through the keyhole. The blood ran under the door before I could get off my knees. They found me covered in it."

She uncurled two more fingers, bleach rough, nail bitten, white and trembling. "The two officers who were bringing me for questioning. The Americans rammed their car to get to me. One died right then. The other had time to get out his gun, but they killed him, two shots to his head through the window. Do you know, I still dream about tasting his blood?"

The agent went white, and she nodded. "Yes. I was screaming. I tell myself I spat out only broken glass, not shards of bone, but some nights I am not convinced."

The second agent came back in. Rossi, she remembered, like the wine. Dark, bearded, wearing toughness like a coat he would take off when it no longer suited him. His every move as he folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe made it clear; she was meant to fear him. And so she ignored him and kept her eyes on the blonde as she uncurled a fourth finger.

"There was a tour bus. The agents got us onto it with the other tourists, and we rode it to the border town. The driver didn't know he was committing treason -- he had no idea who I was, or that the man and woman with me were not my parents. He would have recognized my father's name, if anyone had said it to him, but he had no way to know that I was a prize he demanded in his terms -- the guarantee of his 'loyalty' to his new country."

"You were in danger," Rossi said, gesturing with the file he had gone out for. It was a fifth the size of the one they'd had when the interview began. "As the only child of a defecting Nobel prize winner, your life would have been-"

She waved him silent without a look. "That bus driver's family never saw him again after that day. I wrote to them after we were settled here, asked after him many times, until they stopped writing back. He just did his job. He just drove the bus, and he betrayed his country doing it."

She uncurled her thumb, and then brought up the other fist, and added three fingers to the count from there. Neither agent interrupted this time. "The farmer, his wife, their two sons. I never learnt their names. They did not even know we were in their barn that day. They could not have given us up to the soldiers even if they had wanted to, but they were all killed anyway. I saw the whole farm burning from the middle of the lake -- house, barn, shed, everything. The farmer had a boat, you understand. The agents wanted it for a night crossing, so we would pass no armed checkpoints at the border."

She drew a deep breath, and fancied she could smell smoke in the sterile little meeting room. The agents traded a look which as much as said, 'get her back on track,' and she glowered at them both in turn. Then she raised one more finger.

"I was in school then. I was going to sing opera. I was going to be a star, and be famous for creating beauty on the stage, rather than for creating death on the battlefield like my father. I was going to light up the world, but in two weeks, I went from Prima Donna to Plague Ship. Everyone who had known me, who had been close, or even kind to me all fell under suspicion. Their lives were scarred, their careers were ruined. My Singing Master was a _genius_!"

She brought her open hand down, slam on the table, so Jareau jumped and ruffled the neatly squared file before her. "He was a genius, and I was his finest pupil, and because of my Father's greed for power, and your country's greed for military glory, and a political coup against my homeland, that brilliant man died in a prison camp. He never taught anybody to sing again." She looked down at her hand, and lowered its rough, chapped mate to lie beside it. "And instead of lighting up the stage with the gifts he taught me, I am cleaning toilets for minimum wage so your National Security Agency won't have to worry about me attracting too much ... attention."

She flicked a corner of the file as though it were a bloated carrion fly. "And apparently, my father is still strangling prostitutes when he is not in his laboratory."

"You knew what he was all along." It was not a question. Jareau did not bother to hide the horror in her voice, or her face and for that, she respected her a little.

She nodded. "It was why I got away from him as fast as I could. First at home, and then here."

"Because a pathology like his doesn't begin with killing, or with abusing strangers," Rossi said, clinical and cold, as though discussing the weather or his lunch. "He is all about control in every phase of the murder, and he would have been like that for all your life, getting more and more abusive as his desires grew."

Her stomach twisted, and she let it show on her face. "I told the agents they were bringing home a monster, that they would regret it if they let him stay." She pinned the blonde's gaze with her own. "Do you know what they said?" A headshake, tight and tiny as a flinch. She returned it with a smile she knew could only be cruel. "They said they would put a note in their report."

The other agent unfolded his arms, tucked the folder down by his side, and she tracked the movement with her eyes. "Did you find such a note in my file, agent Rossi? Or was that blacked out by your NSA censors before you got it?"

Rossi scowled, but this time it was Jareau who cut in with accusation in her voice. "Michelle Kuan went missing within a year of your father's gaining American citizenship. You were still living with him on the airbase then."

She frowned, then understood. "Yes, I suspected. Yes, he knew I suspected. He dared me to try and tell. He called the State Department. Put the phone in my hand and told me I could say whatever I wanted to them, and just see what they would do about it." She felt herself shaking, the memory of helpless rage as hard to swallow now as it had been then.

"What did you say to them?"

She glowered at Rossi, not fooled by his gentle tone. "I said it was a wrong number. Then I got out of his house as soon as I could find a job. I married the first American who said he would have me, and moved as far away as your government would let me go. I haven't seen my father, or spoken to him in five years. I can't help you find him now."

"Please," agent Jareau caught at her hand, skin cloying and smooth before she yanked away. "Please try and help us. He's killed five innocent young women, and their families deserve-"

"Nine."

A blink, doe-eyed and gleaming, shocked as though she'd been slapped.

"The cleaning woman; the two police officers; the bus driver; the farmer; his wife; two sons; my Master. Nine innocent people died because of me. Because of _him._ Nine good people whose families had to bury them as traitors, and act ashamed of them for the rest of their lives. Nine people died to bring me to America, agent Jareau, and all because my father said he would not stay and work here if they did not fetch me to him. All that blood on me! On _my head._ " She drew a shaking breath, and had to close her eyes to manage the words. "Nobody even once asked me if I wanted to come here."

"I'm. I'm so sorry..."

She shoved the file, watched with grim satisfaction as the glossy, gore photographs slithered out all over Agent Jareau and the floor. "You Americans worked hard to win your monster. You have bought and paid for him in blood, and now you want to know where he is?" She shoved to her feet, not caring as the chair toppled behind her with a crash. "I have no idea, nor do I care. He's your monster now; find him yourselves."

She yanked open the office door, brushing past the man as though he was not half blocking the way. "And when you do find him," she called back as she strode past the rest of the agents, silent around their tables, maps and computer screens, "I suggest you put him down like the animal he is!"

"I'll make a note of it," Agent Rossi called after her as she slammed out the door.


End file.
